Wherever I Go
by hawkataine
Summary: Steve decides he needs to learn to fly quinjets. Clint is happy to teach him. But there are some memories that can't, or won't, be shaken, and before they know it this conversation is heading somewhere it was never meant to go. And they've misplaced the brake lever. Rated for some swearing. Set in the Lifeline 'verse but on a separate branch to everything after Breathe.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N So this is a mini headcanon that's been bugging me for ages, and then it got mentioned in my other fic I'm Alive, so I figured I'd give it a shot and explain the reasoning behind it. It was originally a one-shot, but then it wasn't. For anyone who's getting worried about I'm Alive, DON'T PANIC. I haven't given up on it, I'm just a bit stuck on where to go next, but I'll try and update at some point.**

**About this fic. I'm generally known for being unable to take Steve seriously, so please tell me if I got him right or wrong or whatever. **

**I can take flames. I'm Human Torch...**

**Oh yeah and I saw Thor: the Dark World today and OMFG \obur;gaern . rzjgh;ure *dies***

**Anyhoo...**

* * *

Clint glances sideways at Steve.  
"You sure you want to do this?"  
Steve just shrugs.  
"I've got to learn at some point, right?"  
They're strapped into the front seats of an old quinjet. Old by SHIELD standards, of course. It's actually only about three years old, but apparently the substandard interior trim (and the slightly more important difference in acceleration and handling between it and its contemporaries) is enough to demote it to the ranks of the training jets in Nick Fury's eyes. As such, it's currently being piloted by Captain America and Hawkeye, with the intent of familiarising Steve with the new-fangled control systems that are now the standard in modern jets. The two Avengers have escaped Stark Tower for a while; Stark is hosting a dinner party for some important-sounding people and Clint has prompted Steve into suddenly remembering that they have an incredibly important SHIELD task to do that unfortunately renders their being there impossible.

"You've been through the simulators and stuff, right?" Clint asks, eyes running down the checklist in front of him. He pauses, raises one eyebrow, and then apparently gives up on protocol and ticks everything off anyway.  
"Shouldn't you be checking that with me?" Steve asks, sounding understandably nervous.  
"You saved the world from an alien invasion. What more do they want?" Clint shrugs. "You're Captain fucking America. If you can't survive The Checklist of Shame, no-one can."  
Steve allows himself a small chuckle at the top SHIELD agent's apparent disregard for the Director's rules.  
"I didn't exactly save the world in one of these things, though - I might well have died in one if you hadn't been piloting it," Steve points out.  
"Yeah, well, that's why you're not the teacher," Clint says vaguely, his expression darkening briefly. "How about you don't have to rely on me next time?"  
Steve doesn't have any time to reply. Clint tosses the Checklist of Shame into the back of the jet, presses a few confusing-looking buttons, yanks the joystick back and suddenly they're hurtling along the Helicarrier runway, heading for the edge. Steve grips the edge of the dashboard tightly, suddenly remembering why he hates flying.  
_Too late to do anything about that now.  
_  
"Try to relax, Cap," Clint calls out as they near the end of the runway. "It's not going anywhere I don't tell it to."  
"On it," Steve shouts back over the roar of the engines. He pushes his mounting fear to one side and focuses instead on the noise, but just as he is beginning to calm down, the floor drops away and they shoot off the edge. Steve finds himself forced back in his seat as Clint pulls the jet up at a sickening angle. He can just about make out the sea, seemingly millions of miles below them, ready to swallow them if they falter and fall out of the sky.  
"I don't think I can do this," Steve warns, sounding a lot calmer than he feels. The last thing he wants to do is put them both in the water.  
"Sure you can. It's dual controlled; I can take over if the shit hits the fan," Clint replies.

He's fairly certain that he should probably be trying a bit harder on the reassurance and support front, but hey, he's flying. It's a well known fact that men can't multi-task. Natasha has drilled it into his head enough times over the years that he has given up protesting and instead started to use it as his excuse for just about everything. It works wonders.

_"Hey, Feathers, I need you to do something for me."_  
_"..."_  
_"Oi. Tweetie Pie. Favour needed."_  
_"..."_  
_"BIRDBRAIN. I KNOW YOU CAN HEAR ME."_  
_"..."_  
_"Dammit, Barton! Stop shooting stuff for three seconds and answer me!"_  
_"..."_  
_"...Fine!"_  
_"Hey, get off!"_  
_"I've been standing here for two minutes yelling at you!"_  
_"Oh right. Yeah, I can't multi-task. And I'm not doing that favour for you, by the way. Hey, ow!"_

The jet levels out at the top of its ascent and Clint glances sideways at the super-soldier next to him, who's looking decidedly pale.  
"Ready? I did the hard part, you don't need to worry about anything now. Except maybe passing pigeons."  
Steve gives a weak smile before forcing a determined look onto his face.  
"I'll do it," he says. "Let's go."  
Clint grins and flicks the switch to hand control over to Steve.  
"Remember - just keep it steady. Fury'll murder us both if anything goes wrong."

Okay, his people skills are shit, but then again you don't exactly tend to make a lot of friends in his profession. And he's developed a strange habit of killing them off, anyway.

Steve just nods and clenches his hands around the joystick, staring straight ahead out the window.

Suddenly the jet begins to dive.

Steve feels the bile rise in his mouth and he lets go of the controls as if he's been electrocuted. He's dimly aware of Clint swearing his mouth off next to him, but he can't seem to find the button marked 'speech' in his brain, and anyway there's no point because the scene is fading and he can't focus anymore, and they're falling -

* * *

**A/N I feel like this merits an evil laugh. Mwahahahaha. Etc.**

**I would say I'm sorry for the cliff hanger, but I'm kindofnotreally.**

**So yeah. Review?**

**Hawk**


	2. Chapter 2

Steve wakes up in his bed, panting. He stares around the room - his room, back at Stark Tower - and slowly tries to work out what he's doing here. Straining his ears for a hint, he hears nothing, which must mean that Stark's party is over. So that would make it what, Sunday? How long has he been out, exactly?  
His stomach rumbles and he is jolted back to reality and the more pressing concerns that come with it. He rolls out of bed, pleasantly surprised to find that he doesn't appear to be injured, as is normally the case when he wakes up and can't remember how he got there. Given that he can't get drunk anymore and all that.  
Then it all comes flooding back to him in a torrent of unwelcome revelation.  
The jet. That he was _flying_.  
Clint.  
Steve panics for a terrifying moment before the more logical part of his brain realises that the archer is probably fine, given that _someon_e must have gotten them both back safely if he's lying here and there's no sign of an angry Black Widow standing over him ready to kill him for drowning her partner in the Atlantic. Although, come to think of it, she _is_ a professional assassin, so there probably wouldn't be any sign of her anyway.

He wonders briefly what happened to his life.

He decides to go in search of their resident archer, because, even though he (kind of) knows it's not his fault, he still blames himself because, well, that's what Captain America does. He should have known that flying would trigger something, he should have warned Clint _before_ they were in the air. Shouldn't have been so irresponsible.

He's walking down the corridor towards the lifts now, and he still hasn't got a clue what time it is. The daylight pouring in through Stark's glass 'walls' is presumably a sign that it is in fact daytime, and the low sun means it's probably early morning. Which would explain the lack of people around; Stark, Bruce and Thor like to sleep in for as long as possible, while the assassins are, well, assassins. Steve wonders if he's actually going to be able to find Clint, let alone keep him in the room long enough to make a full apology. The archer isn't exactly known for being sociable.

The lift comes to a smooth halt at the 90th floor and Steve steps out and heads for the kitchen. When he gets there, though, it turns out he needn't have worried. Both assassins are present, Natasha serving herself cereal while Clint perches on a bar stool with a small pile of papers scattered over the worktop in front of him. They're having a conversation in what he can only assume to be Russian, but they look up and fall silent as he comes to stand in the doorway.  
"Hey, Cap," Clint says, clearing a space in the tabletop carnage so that Steve can sit on the stool next to him. Steve scans his face for any hint of hostility, but comes up with nothing, so he troops obediently over and sits down in the proffered seat.  
"Are you alright?" Natasha asks, joining them at the table with a bowl of cereal in her hands, which she immediately starts wolfing down.  
"I'm fine, thanks," Steve replies. He glances sideways at Clint, who's packing away the paperwork at a rate of knots. "What about you?"  
Natasha seems to sense that he's not really asking her, as she answers on her partner's behalf.  
"He's absolutely fine, Steve."  
"Worn out, but nothing broken," Clint confirms.  
"Good," Steve says, because he can't think of the words for what he actually wants to say. He can feel their gazes searing straight through him, though, so he changes tack. "What's that?" he asks, gesturing at Clint's pile of dead rainforest.  
"Confidential," Natasha says quickly, but Clint raises an eyebrow at her and turns to Steve.  
"Fury wasn't exactly happy with our, uh, outing," he sighs.  
"I thought you said it was his idea?" Steve says, confused now.  
"Yeah, I did," Clint smirks. "I also once told a woman in Geneva that I'd been sent by the local chipmunk agency to check the walls of her house. For chipmunks."  
Natasha huffs and rolls her eyes.  
"Yes, and Fury put us on recruit training for a month."  
"Same effect," Clint mutters, waving a hand at the stack of paperwork.

"Wait," Steve frowns. "So Fury hadn't approved it?"  
Perhaps Clint can sense the tide of disapproval waiting in Steve's voice, because he looks up sharply.  
"Look, I just thought it would be a good idea, you know? SHIELD were planning it at some point anyway, and believe me it would have been much worse if you'd been stuck with pretty much any of their agents. I didn't exactly expect it to turn out how it did. But Fury apparently doesn't see that side of it -"  
"So he gave you a pile of work to do," Steve finishes for him, opening the floodgates to unleash the waves of disparagement. "What made you think it would be a good idea?"  
Clint doesn't answer, instead looking to Natasha with something akin to resignation in his eyes. Apparently she knows what he wants from her, because she takes her bowl to the sink and makes her excuses, heading for the gym. Steve wonders if the assassins have planned this conversation, since they seem to have choreographed it so smoothly.

Once she's gone, Steve turns to meet the archer's eyes, but Clint is busy staring at the table. There's an awkward silence before Steve remembers why he came down here in the first place.  
"I wanted to apologise," he says, continuing with dogged determination before Clint can butt in. "I shouldn't have let myself anywhere near a jet, and I've realised that too late. I could have drowned both of us in the middle of the Atlantic."  
"Stop."  
It sounds like an order, but the archer is still staring at the table, although he's turned his head to face Steve slightly. Steve frowns, noticing the clenched left fist and wondering what he's said wrong.  
"Are you feeling okay?" he asks in concern.  
"Stop blaming yourself. There is no way in hell you're at fault for anything that happened yesterday. I was just stupid."  
If he wasn't confused before, he definitely is now. How is letting go of the controls not his fault? He knows from experience that Clint is ridiculously self-depreciative, but this is a little extreme, even for him.  
"How do you work that one out?"  
An internal war seems to happen inside the other man. "You ever wonder why I'm scared shitless of cars?" he says quietly, finally meeting Steve's gaze.  
Steve ponders this for a moment.  
"I've wondered, yes, but it never bothered me enough to ask," he ventures slowly.  
Clint snorts. "You mean, you're too much of a nice person to confront me directly and you don't know how to take the Stark route of hacking my file, not that you would anyway because he'd never let you hear the end of it."  
Steve can feel the archer's typical morbid amusement as he tries to find an argument to deny it and has to admit defeat.  
"I don't want to know if you don't want me to," he says somewhat lamely, but the sentiment is there anyway and that's what counts.  
There's a long pause, and Steve wonders when this turned into an 'ask Clint' session. Definitely not what he had originally planned for this morning, but it seems as if Clint needs to get whatever this is off his chest, so Captain America is going to stay and listen.  
Sometimes it feels like a split personality.

"Nah, I s'pose I should probably trust you with it by now," Clint eventually says. Steve is silent, waiting patiently for Clint to make the first move. "You know my parents are dead, have been for some time. Happened when I was about eight."  
He's never realised it was so young. Suddenly his own childhood seems so much easier in comparison. Even if the war had claimed his father, he had still had a loving mother to look after him. Clint's family had been snatched away at such a tender age -  
"Serves them right, the fuckers," Clint mutters viciously, catching Steve off guard.  
"What?" he says without thinking. Clint just shakes his head, grinning as if he knows exactly what he's interrupted.  
"Abusive alcoholics, both of 'em. Ran a neat shoplifting business too. One night they'd drunk too much, as usual, but then they got a tip-off that the cops were coming for them. Bundled us into the car, reached the motorway and wrapped it around the crash barrier down the middle as quickly as they could."  
It's almost worrying, the flippant way he tells it. But Steve's been living with the archer for the last few months, helping him through hell and out the other side, and he can hear the slight tremor in his voice, see the imperceptible shudder in his shoulders.  
And when Clint suddenly shoves his stool back and strides to the window, staring out and away from Steve, the shaking is all too obvious. Steve gets up and follows but pauses halfway, unsure of what he's supposed to do. He settles for taking up position at the opposite end of the window and pretending to watch the people on the street below.  
"They were killed instantly, of course. Me and my brother got away with a couple broken bones, but our sister -" He slumps against the wall in defeat and slides down it, coming to a rest at the bottom where he buries his head in his hands, and suddenly Steve doesn't know what to make of the conversation. This was only meant to be a stupid apology - how had they managed to get so badly side-tracked?

Clint blinks and shakes his head as if trying to clear it. When he speaks again, it's barely more than a whisper.  
"I still have dreams about it," he admits softly. "When it's not Loki, that is," he adds as an afterthought, grimacing slightly.  
"I dream about the plane crash too," Steve says, pleased to have finally found an opening to say something. "Never fails to wake me up."  
"Why did you let me take you flying?" Clint asks after a pause. "Out of curiosity. It's still not your fault."  
"I guess I thought I could manage it," Steve replies, thinking carefully. "Hoped I could conquer my fears by facing them or something."  
"I should have known you would flip. No offence. I did - until SHIELD finally taught me to fight it, I guess. Doesn't make it any better; you wouldn't believe the concentration it takes not to go full-scale panic attack every goddamn time. Handed Tasha her fair share of shit too, more than once. But on the plus side, I have a genuine excuse to be the driver. Never fails to piss Stark off."

Steve smiles to himself as Thor roams into the kitchen in search of pop-tarts, and Clint leaves in search of Natasha.

And if Clint notices the argument Steve puts up next time Stark tries to force them on a road trip, he doesn't say anything. But Fury mutters something about misplaced files the next time they're all called together, and SHIELD suddenly lose interest in teaching their Captain to fly.

**A/N So this is the first story on here I've actually managed to finish. Be proud of me. To clear up any confusion for the future or whatever, that was set after the events of I'm Alive, which I still haven't finished yet, but on a separate timeline thingy to Breathe (its sequel), which I haven't even started yet.**

**I'm good at this.**

**Reviews much appreciated, as always :) Even if it's just to tell me to get my shit together and actually write the next chapter of I'm Alive. Which I also haven't done.**

**Anyway.**

**Hawk over and out.**


End file.
